


Bran' New Suit

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Series: Oakenshield Press [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Clothed Sex, Drug Use, Frottage, Gandalf the Grey is a gem in any universe, Happy Ending, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize him— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man.<br/> <br/>They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bran' New Suit

**Author's Note:**

> It might be a little while yet before the slow burn of [“Blended in Measure”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/595414/chapters/1072673) ignites, and I really wanted to write something blatantly sexier today. Mix that desire with my elemental weakness for AUs, along with inspiration from [this ridiculously tempting gif set](http://bilbohs.tumblr.com/post/38298756172/modern-au-in-an-alternate-world-bilbo-baggins), and BAM! Modern Thilbo Bagginshield sexy happy-ending fun times.
> 
> Modern Hobbit characters were admittedly weird to write, but I hope I've done them something approaching justice.

 

* * *

 

Gathering up his tablet and briefcase, Tom considered the mountain of work waiting upon his return to the office for all of fifteen seconds before slipping back up to the counter and grabbing another large Americano, this one to go. He wasn’t about to spend more than forty-five minutes lingering about in a cafe in the middle of the day, even for an old friend; he’d send Andrew a text later that afternoon, not that the mad old bat ever checked his mobile.

It was a pleasantly sunny day, with a light, fresh gust of breeze, and balmy enough that Tom didn’t bother buttoning his overcoat as he stepped outside. The cafe’s alfresco seating was busier than inside, but a quick glance over the patrons didn’t cause any familiar, silver-headed figure to materialize.

Andrew had likely forgotten; he wasn’t precisely the sort for mobile reminders beeping at all hours, or even keeping a proper diary. Tom wasn’t jealous, not exactly, but there were days when the thought of never caring one whit about the ringing of a phone or the ding of an email arriving seemed like a truly blissful notion.

With that thought whispering through the back of his mind, Tom didn’t bother hailing a cab, content to enjoy the fine weather for just a bit longer. It would only take about twenty minutes to walk back to his office— with traffic the way it was, the cab ride wouldn’t likely be much faster anyway.

And of course it was that impulse that brought him trotting around the corner, where Andrew sat placidly on a bench beneath one of the slender, neatly maintained trees meant to beautify this stretch of pavement. An anomalous row of green in a city of stone and steel— naturally, Andrew would have chosen a cafe with bloody trees outside, even if there were any number of more convenient places for the pair of them to meet, and with better coffee.

Andrew Grey had been a friend to Tom’s family for years, though always the odd, unpredictable sort, swooping in and out of contact as he fancied. Before the phone call that had brought Tom out of the office today, he hadn’t heard a single thing from Andrew in over a year, which wasn’t terribly unusual.

The wreath of pale smoke curling around the man wasn’t unusual either, rising up from the long wooden pipe hanging from his mouth. Though the white china cup and saucer was a bit incongruous for sipping tea on the pavement.

Glad for his own steaming coffee— perhaps the caffeine might help ward off the headache he could feel brewing behind his eyes— Tom walked over and suffered the weight of a benign but far too knowing smile.

“Good morning, Andrew.” Taking a seat on the bench without waiting for an invitation, tucking his briefcase between his feet, Tom allowed himself a small, weary sigh. “You’re looking well.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” Perched on the shabbily painted bench, looking just slightly too rumpled to be proper in his finely tailored, pale slate suit and dove grey tie, Andrew took a deep drag from his pipe before blowing out a wide ring. “And a good morning to you, my friend. How go things?”

Close enough now to get a good whiff, Tom batted the sweet smoke away and levelled a glare in Andrew’s direction. “For god’s sake, man— This isn’t Amsterdam, and it’s not even _noon_.”

“It’s medicinal.” Plucking the pipe from his lips, Andrew’s smile didn’t waver even fractionally as he lifted his teacup. He sat with his legs lazily crossed, and the saucer was balanced on his bent knee. “And the good folk at this cafe are even kind enough to bring me my drinks over here, so as not to trouble any other patrons. Aren’t they lovely?"

Giving up the argument before it could even begin, Tom resigned himself to spending the rest of his day reeking like he should be wearing artfully torn jeans and listening to Pink Floyd. His coffee had cooled just enough to be drinkable without scalding, and he took a mouthful rather than saying anything else, leaning back against the bench and smoothing out his own suit. He'd probably have to have everything dry cleaned before he wore it again, even his new cobalt tie.

“You don't still smoke, do you?” Andrew asked, and Tom ran an idle hand over his beard, sparing a thought for the packet of Benson & Hedges in his top desk drawer (and the half-empty pack tucked away in his bedside table at home). He shook his head.

“Not for a while, no.”

“Good for you.” Andrew sounded comically sincere for a man currently puffing away at what smelled like a rich blend of strong tobacco and marijuana. “Nasty habit. You look dreadful, by the way. Absolutely exhausted.”

“Well thank you very much for that, Andy, you old tosser.” There was absolutely no point in taking offence, especially since Tom knew Andrew was entirely correct. The past few months since his father's death had been miserable, with distributors and clients jumping ship left and right— most were bringing their business to the ever-growing monster that was Red Drake Publishing Group, which was a particularly bitter twist of the knife sticking from Tom's back. Rufus Drake was an amoral snake of a man, who'd bought out Durin & Sons from Tom's grandfather for an embarrassingly paltry sum years before, using strong-arm tactics and underhanded bullshit to force their once well-respected, proud family business to crumble like wet sand.

Tom still held on to a kernel of resentment that his grandfather hadn't fought harder, hadn't _won_ against the enemy, but there was only so much anger he could maintain for an old man whose heart had failed not even a month after ignobly losing his livelihood and his legacy. No, it was much more effective to focus his anger at the smarmy prick who'd bought them out, and who now sat swigging lavish scotch in Tom's grandfather's office while sending utter drivel through his presses.

Tom's father hadn't had a mind for the business of books, not really, but their attempts to rebuild a smaller, independent publishing house again had done better than anyone had expected. Even with Drake snatching up potential markets and choice manuscripts, Oakenshield Press had been holding its own for nearly a decade, until a tragic mix of depression, medication, and whiskey had overcome Mr. T. Durin Senior just a few months earlier. Tom may have been running the company alone in all but name since the beginning, but something about his father's death had prompted a surge in Drake's subverting manoeuvres.

“I am simply stating a fact, my dear man.” Setting his cup and saucer carefully on the arm of the bench, Andrew turned, regarding Tom with those steady, surprisingly sober bright blue eyes. “And on that note, I find myself in the rather pleasing position of offering you a prime opportunity to improve your current fortunes. An aspiring author I've taken under my wing, and who is looking for the right publishing house for his first novel— a truly fantastic piece of literature, as well.”

There were several things wrong with Andrew's idea of a _prime opportunity_ , but Tom decided to address the two most glaring issues, to begin. “Right,” he said, taking another small sip of his coffee. It wasn't dreadful, and he needed the fortification. “First, when exactly did you become a literary agent? And second, do you honestly think you've found a first novel from some unknown, good enough to warrant being picky about publishers?”

“If I may answer in reverse of the asking: yes, and last Tuesday.”

“Damn it, Andrew, this is my _life_ , not some whim—”

“My faith in Mr. Baggins' skill,” Andrew interrupted smoothly, his gaze still twinkling. “Is hardly a whim. It is an observation of measurable fact: his prose is clean, his narrative compelling, and his book is brilliant.”

“Baggins?” For an instant, the world seemed to narrow; that name had been bandied about for months, but beyond rumours of having found the next Rowling or Pratchett, no one in the industry had anything concrete to show for all the chatter. “William Baggins? You... How in the hell...”

Andrew's smile broadened, and his next smoke ring was even more audacious than the last. Tom wondered if this entire conversation might simply be the product of an addled brain and a contact high, but that was a risk he had to take.

“Well how about it, Tom? Would you like to meet him?”

 

* * *

 

Mr. Baggins, thankfully, seemed a bit less liberal than Andrew in his interpretation of how best to meet over drinks. At the very least, he came inside the restaurant.

Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize the man— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a warmly well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man. They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.

The hair brushing his collar also served to remind Tom that he was due for a trim himself; he'd lost the rebellious ponytail of his early twenties when he'd lost his grandfather, and shortly after that he'd gained his first grey hairs. It wasn't the worst trade imaginable; Tom had been assured that a bit of dappling made him look distinguished, though whether or not his nephews could be trusted not to take the piss was another matter entirely.

A dinner meeting at a small bistro on the other side of the city, miles away from the Drake's offices, still wasn't quite circumspect enough for Tom to entirely relax, and then catching sight of his potential author from across the room hit him like a punch to the chest. A good beginning for his best hope of salvation, to be sure.

Mr. Baggins seemed to recognize him as well (Tom didn't dare wonder how Andrew might have described him to the other man _;_ the word _grim_ had likely been a favourite), if his wide smile and wave were any indication. When Baggins approached the table, Tom stood, offering a hand.

“Mr. Baggins,” he said, only barely a question, and received a chuckle and a gentle but steady handshake in return.

“Ah, just William. Mr. Thorton Durin, I presume?” After thirty-six years, Tom managed not to winch at that awkward mouthful.

“Please—” Motioning for Baggins to sit, Tom followed suit, calling up one of his more charming smiles as the waiter approached with menus in hand. “Call me Tom. Thorton is an old family name, and one I'm much less sentimental about than my father was.”

Realizing his mistake the moment Baggins' cheerful expression dropped in sympathy, Tom could have slapped himself. “Yes, well. My, ah, condolences about his loss.”

“Thank you.” Rallying from that awkwardness while Baggins ordered a drink, Tom tried to ignore the niggling itch in the back of his brain that insisted something was odd about the man across the table. It wasn't simply the vibe of an eccentric author— Baggins' hair was a bit shaggy, but he seemed reasonably coherent, his clothes were well-kept and natty, and he hadn't started the meeting by pulling a taxidermied house cat out of his leather satchel and demanding a saucer of cream and a dozen chocolate Hobnobs. That alone meant he wasn't the most bizarre writer Tom had ever met.

“So, Andy tells me you're a good friend,” Baggins began the moment the waiter had slipped off, which actually saved Tom the trouble of finding a better topic than dead relatives. “And he speaks quite well of you, by the way. Personally and professionally.”

“He's too kind.” Surprisingly kind, actually, unless Baggins was trying to be polite. Andrew Grey was rarely one to worry about avoiding hard feelings when the truth would do better, and he was as secure in his own wisdom as he was meddlesome. “Though I'm sure the praise he's heaping on your work is well-deserved.”

With one humble dip of his curly head and a crooked smile, Baggins succeeded in sending Tom's brain off again on some dizzying sort of deja vu. It had been two bloody days since his meeting with Andrew; surely he couldn't still be high.

“Oh, let's at least get through starters before I've got to natter on about that, Tom. I'm famished, and the stuffed mushrooms sound delicious.”

 

* * *

 

“ —and I'm surprised none of us lost fingers, with Andy setting off those spectacular fireworks he used to do... Shit, I thought my father was going to have a stroke before the end of that summer, I swear, but Mum just laughed and told him she liked the green sparklers best!”

Ordering the second bottle of wine had either been an unforgivable mistake, or the best decision of Tom's life to date; he wasn't entirely sober enough to decide which. It hardly helped that Baggins was pink cheeked and giggling as they swapped Andrew Grey stories over tiramisu, and the sight of the handsome little man so chuffed was both painfully adorable and dangerously approaching fuckable.

It was good for business that they were getting on so well, though, which was admittedly a poor excuse for pouring more wine, but it was the best Tom could come up with at the moment.

“Oh god,” Tom chuckled, possibly a bit too husky, but that was largely due to the wine. Probably. “The _fireworks_. Bill, honestly, he nearly set a cousin of mine on fire with those...”

The silence from the other side of the table was jarring enough to bring Tom up short, despite the wooliness permeating his brain. Baggins wasn't giggling anymore, just staring ever so slightly slack-jawed at Tom, with wide eyes turned deep stormy blue in the dim light of the restaurant. It took a moment too long for Tom to realize what he'd said, and by that time the other man had already starting speaking.

“I, er... That was a bit strange. I haven't been called Bill in years, but you—”

No matter how right the name had felt in his mouth, Tom was still wise enough to backpedal. “Sorry. Sorry, William—”

“No, no, Bill is fine.” Shutting up, stopping the cycle of interruption before it could get any more ridiculous, Tom watched as a speculating sort of expression wandered over Baggins' face. If he hadn't known better, and by this point it was honestly debatable whether or not he _did_ , Tom would have sworn the other man was not-so-subtly checking him out.

Blinking, glancing up from what was almost certainly a drunkenly protracted study of the cut of Tom's charcoal suit jacket, Baggins had easily gained back his previous flush, and more pinkness besides. “It's more than fine,” he said, voice sounding equal parts surprised and warmly curious, then cleared his throat. “I mean, people are always mistaking me for Prince William anyway. Very annoying, you can imagine.”

The tension didn't fade entirely, but Tom felt as though it was being replaced by a different, much more pleasant sort. That was an unexpected development— Tom had always made a point to keep his private life as separate from his work as possible, despite the fact that Oakenshield was a family business, with cousins and nephews forever underfoot. It also took up such a huge portion of his time to keep them afloat that dating and socializing had taken a backseat for quite a while, but he had never, _never_ slept with a prospective author.

Granted, he'd never wanted to sleep with anyone quite so fervently as he did this man at this precise moment, but that was beside the point. Wasn't it?

Less than an arm's length away after their shuffling closer as they ate and spoke, Baggins was smiling again, with an shrewdness to his expression that hadn't been there before. Tom felt his stomach lurch; it was actually a bit alarming that this virtual stranger could have such a visceral effect on him so soon in their acquaintance. Alarming, but also very, very hot. “So, what is it, Tom? You know another Bill?”

“The opposite, actually.” They'd been flirting a bit, just a usual teasing back-and-forth, for over three hours and two bottles of wine. Now, for some reason Tom couldn't quite pinpoint, the air seemed to be changing, crackling between them. In the face of that, surely he could be forgiven if his mouth ran away with him. “I had a boyfriend named William a number of years back. He was a complete tit.”

Baggins— _Bill_ laughed at that unintended admission, with a earnest joy that warmed Tom down to his toes. “Well, I can't say I've ever dated a Thorton... nor a Tom, come to think of it. One of those seems less surprising than the other."

 _Would you like to_ , was something he would absolutely not allow himself to say, no matter how much pinot noir he guzzled. But then, as it turned out, he didn't actually have to trot out the abysmal pick-up lines.

“Tom?” Bill's fingers were tapping along the edge of his plate, and that tiny nervous tick was enough to put Tom back on more even ground, if only for a moment. His voice had gone quiet enough that Tom found himself leaning closer to hear. “Can I just ask... Which would be more hideously presumptuous and inappropriate of me right now: asking you to take me home, or inviting you back to my hotel room?”

And there went _even ground,_ shot straight to hell, replaced swiftly by pure white heat curling up Tom's spine.

 _Hot as dragon's fire_.

Shaking away all unexpected thoughts of dragons (where in the world had _that_ come from?), as well as all sensible doubts, Tom let his hand stray over to slowly curl over Bill's wrist, ever so gently. Under the neatly pressed, sage green shirt cuff, Bill's fair skin was almost sinfully warm and soft.

“I do have a very nice bed at my flat.” They were both leaning in now, near enough that Tom could smell the lingering sweetness of tiramisu, and a faintly earthy scent, like fresh grass and honey. He managed, just barely, not to press his nose into the side of Bill's throat in the middle of the restaurant. “And I have been known to make fantastic waffles for breakfast, given the proper incentive.”

“Well, that settles it.” There was an audible clicking sound as Bill swallowed, and twin spots of colour burning high on his cheeks. Tom wanted to lick them, to discover if they were as hot as they looked, then lick a few other places to compare. “Why didn't you just say _waffles_ in the first place?”

 

* * *

 

“Just— oh _god_ — just to be clear—” They'd actually held hands in the cab, which had felt astonishingly intimate and comfortable despite the growing sensation of sitting on a tinderbox set to light, and Tom used that grip to push Bill against the wall of his entryway the moment the flat door locked behind them. He then set about taking Bill apart, piece by piece, starting with a deep, utterly filthy kiss that migrated to the hollow of Bill's throat in short order.

 _Mine, to take, to have, to claim. Earned and kept, mine, my treasure, my own_ —

“To be clear,” Bill panted again, hands clenched around Tom's shoulders, urging more with every tug. The scrape of Tom's beard against his own bare neck elicited a pleased hiss, and Tom tucked that information away for further exploration. “Because I'm a bit pissed and horny as hell— this is in no way a legally binding or even implicit agreement about the book, all right?”

“You may be hot shit, Baggins—” Shrugging out of his jacket, which Bill had already yanked halfway down his arms, Tom jerked enough fiddly buttons open to suck hard against a gorgeously smooth collarbone, drinking in the ragged moan that caused. Hands clawed at his tie, dragging the knot loose and tossing it aside, and then Bill's fingers were buried under his collar, raising gooseflesh as they pinched and scratched. He bit at the man's neck and jaw in return, grinning. “In more ways than one, but I'm not prostituting myself for your damned book.”

“It _is_ a really good book, though,” Bill said, laughing, and Tom kissed him hard.

Tom had been told on more than one occasion that he had the sort of presence that filled a room, which was lucky in most situations, given that his actual height left something to be desired. Scarcely five-foot-seven, Tom had very rarely slept with anyone who actually made him feel tall, but Bill was even more vertically challenged. In fact, he was shorter as well as slighter, and Tom was quickly discovering that having perhaps three inches and at least two stone of weight over the other man was more than a little attractive.

 _Such a sweet little thing, sweet and so strong, my fierce hobbit_ —

Their hips slotted together without much effort, and the friction was delicious, sending Tom breathing harshly against Bill's ear as they rutted together, still in their damned trousers.

“That's it, there, _yes—_ you lovely thing, beautiful creature—” He was muttering nonsense already, getting carried away too quickly, but Bill didn't seem to mind. When nimble hands stole down between them, unzipping trousers and shoving pants aside, Tom thrust forward so hard that his coatrack trembled beside them. The feel of Bill's cock against his own, hot and gorgeously hard, had Tom seeking out that wicked mouth again, curling their tongues together between wet breaths and groans.

“More Tom, _more_ —” The name, his own name, rang so false in that desperate, breathy voice that it nearly stopped him cold, but then Bill's hand wrapped around them both, slicking precome before squeezing, twisting, pumping, and Tom had him lifted up by the thighs an instant later. Legs wrapped tightly around Tom's waist, and their trousers were still entirely in the way, but all that mattered was _more_.

“More, yes... I'm going to have you—” Bill's thumb stroked over their bumping cock heads, his fingers pressing them snugly together and flaring the fire in Tom's belly, ever inch of him pulsing all the hotter. Tom couldn't help but grind his hips forward, the world narrowing to just this, with sweat and breath mingling and sensation spiking, rucking their shirts up farther and fucking sharply against a sweet, bare stomach. “I'll have you and keep you, every part... give me, give me everything— mine, _my own_ —”

 _Mine, mine, my own, my Bilbo, always mine, forever_ _ **mine**_ —

There was a gasp pressed against his cheek, a beautifully needy whine, and then slickness ran hot over his cock as Bilbo's hips stuttered, tense as a drawn bow.

“ _Mine_ —” He snarled the word, desperate to own, to lay claim again, and arched into the aching pleasure of a familiar hand tangling in the hair at his nape. Blunt nails scratched across his scalp, his name was breathed out against his ear, that beloved voice shuddering with wonder, with such affection, and Thorin was flying apart with a triumphant roar.

“Thorin?” That voice quivering with uncertainty, _Bilbo's voice_ , cut through his lethargy before he'd even caught his breath, their hearts still hammering together. “Thorin, please, what... What is going on?”

 _Tom Durin, Thorton Durin, his name_ —

 _Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the King Under the Mountain_ —

The weakness in his knees wasn't entirely due to the tendrils of pleasure still thrumming through his nerves, and Thorin braced an arm against the wall before sliding them both down to the floor, keeping the halfling ( _human, human man, both of them_ ) drawn close enough to straddle his thighs.

“Bilbo—” He did not know the body trembling beneath his hands, not as completely he knew the spirit inside it, but it was agonizingly close to the keen, vibrant lover suddenly bursting to life in his memory. The shape was similar, but the details were new— larger everywhere, smoother in places, rougher in others, a lack of familiar scars. Still, Thorin knew Bilbo Baggins down to his very bones, or even deeper than that. At that moment he held the hobbit tightly to his chest, fighting against the maelstrom raging in his mind. “Bilbo Baggins... I know you, halfling, whatever skin you wear.”

“You, you died...” Murmured words, broken by hiccoughing breaths and kisses pressed against his brow, Thorin hid his own stinging eyes in the curve of his lover's shoulder. He remembered the vicious agony of orcish swords piercing his sides, splitting him open and leaving him cold. He remembered a tiny hand gripping his own, clinging hard and desperate as the world faded to tears and blackness, and then the void that followed. “You died, and I lingered so long, mourned so long... _Thorin_. How is this possible?”

A fine question, but neither the dwarven king nor the human man vying for dominance inside Thorin's skull had an answer. “I have no idea.” He huffed out an astonished, half-mad laugh, squeezing Bilbo hard enough to make the hobbit squeak. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” Bilbo repeated a moment later, breathless, and pulled Thorin up into a bruisingly firm kiss.

END


End file.
